Bloodbound
by Videtur Iterum
Summary: Blood, the essence of a life, is never something to be handled lightly. But in a mind set on fire by the taste of humanity, such common sense is practically nonexistent: After injecting Kevin's blood for purely selfish reasons, Crowley inadvertently dooms them both to what might just turn out to be an eternity of each other's company, and one hell of a story. [NOT Shipping.]
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The True Nature of Things

* * *

><p>Blood. Who would have guessed its importance?<p>

Humans naturally shunned the crimson liquid for the longest time. For them it had meant injury, pain, and impending death. Only in the past century did they really discover it for what it was. Life-giving.

It was the essence of life in the purest physical form. And he wanted it.

The problem was not that Crowley was dead and craved life. It was that after 290 years of being content to live a not-life – to exist in a state of being that revolved around borrowing someone else's physical form – he had suddenly been reintroduced, against his will, to what life was meant to be. Forced to touch it: Emotion. Feeling. The need to be loved.

He had been awake at the time, squirming, snarking, and struggling against the chains that bound him to his fate. He had fought the change every step of the process, every second that ticked by in the relentless and unforgiving march of time. But once the seventh hour struck, the fever and terror granted clarity – and he began to realize that he had not been awake. He hadn't even been asleep.

He had been dead. And the injections of blood had been… were… injections of _life_.

Very few truly understood the nature of Hell, and why it was made to burn so hot. The truth was as simple and as complex as the idea that one might set themselves on fire to avoid freezing to death. Those who hailed from Hell were not just dead themselves, they were empty. Empty of sensation, forcing them to borrow another's nervous system. Empty of emotion, prompting them to fill the vacancy with the suffering, fear, and devastation of others. Empty of love – and unable to grasp anything about the concept except the darkness of life without it.

Demons did not have souls. They had a void. An emptiness that violently hungered for the something that was meant to be.

And though to elicit such a confession would be an impossibility, the truth was that the void was _cold_. It was a cold so terrible that those who carried it subconsciously tried everything within their power to warm themselves. Even if it meant setting their plane of existence perpetually on fire.

For 290 years he had been like the rest of them. A great emptiness inside, and a cold so intense that the idea of warmth meant nothing to him.

But in his 291st year, everything changed. The blood was life-giving, and opposed to the frigid abyss of death, life was more than warm. It was as liquid fire that coursed through his borrowed veins. Life was hot – in ways Hell never could be.

For the first time in 291 years, Crowley once again understood the concept of warmth. But more than that, the liquid life that had been forced back into his frozen, lifeless veins did more than burn; it rekindled something in place of the dark void that belonged at a demon's core.

It was nothing but a dull spark, an ember that seemed to threaten every day to go out as the rest of his demonic nature attempted to smother it like the foreign entity it was. But yet, it remained. He could feel it.

And he could feel its hunger.

* * *

><p>Kevin Tran, Advanced Placement. Prophet of the Lord. Who would have guessed his importance?<p>

Ever since he had been a little kid, his mother had told him he was special. But neither Linda Tran, nor his many fawning teachers, nor any college counselor that happily recommended him to Ivy League schools had any notion at the time of the impact the he would have on the fate of the world.

It didn't matter what he had believed before, or what he believed now after everything he he'd seen. Nothing changed the fact some higher power had chosen him for some inscrutable purpose. And that purpose was what would shape his life.

It hadn't taken long for him to discover the inglorious existence of a prophet. The first thing he had learned very quickly wasthat his life wasn't about him anymore. It wasn't even really a life at all. Lives had dreams and hopes, and Kevin's life had dried up as soon as his existence as a prophet came to fruition: all dreams of college disappearing forever when the demon Crowley took him prisoner. All hopes for the future vanishing indefinitely when he escaped and learned there was to be nothing more to his life than running for the rest of it.

For one who had been chosen for a higher purpose, thus far it had been rather lonely and purposeless.

So why did prophets exist?

The Winchesters would spin an inspiring tale about how being a prophet meant to be a part of the great sacrifice, a martyr and hero in the fight between good and evil. Castiel might be a bit more blunt and inform him he was placed on the Earth to interpret God's word for the Winchesters, around whom the universe seemed to revolve. To Kevin, all it had ever been was an extra helping of divinely related superpowers that everyone desired access too, and some would go to cruel lengths to acquire.

It had cost him his mother, his future, and quite possibly his sanity. He was starting to suspect it might cost him his life before the end.

But neither the Winchesters, nor the angels, nor even the prophet himself understood the true nature of prophets. After all, there were very few who did. For to understand the reason for prophets was to understand the mind of the one who sent them. A mindset in which the idea of a cost too high did not exist for the return that was to be infinite.

The truth about prophets was that they were sent for one purpose and one purpose alone…

To reach out to those lost in the dark.


	2. THE Mistake

**Chapter 2**

THE Mistake

* * *

><p>Love. The demonic half of him laughed at the idea. Actually it was more like the demonic 255256ths,but the point stood. He was repulsed by the idea that he had ever let slip to the moosethat he desired it. Why had he said that? He had never even considered craving such a thing before.

Since that unprecedented 'cure' ritual remained unfinished, it was probably all about percentages, he reflected. Disappointingly simple, but then most unplanned things ended up being that way. The more human blood they shot him up with, the more the cure was closer to succeeding, and the onset of human nature triumphed over his abyssal demonic one.

That night had been a bad one. The moose had almost delivered the final bloody hand. His percentages had been high. Too high.

The rest of that night in the trunk had been difficult as well, but for a different reason. Usually he carefully preserved such humiliating memories, in order that they may inspire the crafting of a creatively vicious revenge plan.

But not that one. That night touched something too deep. In the past 290 years he had been nervous, cautious, and concerned. However in all that time, he had never been _scared_. Scared was out of his control. Scared had consumed him like the involuntary emotion it was, burning throughout his fevered mind as the blood burned through his anatomy.

For the first time in 290 years he had lost control, and he lost himself.

He was eager to forget the experience.

The Winchesters had been unpleasantly surprised, but not necessarily shocked, when they had finally deigned to set him up in the solitary confinement he found himself in now, only to discover he had completely regressed from that abominable state.

Crowley wasn't sure how long they had kept him in that trunk, but it couldn't have been more than a week at most, a time during which his percentages slowly fell back into manageable territory. As demonic nature took the majority percentage over the foreign spark, he recaptured his mind from its emotion-induced panic. His ability to feign indifference returned to him, and with it his confidence. By the time the Winchesters pulled off the hood and removed the duct tape, he was practically back to his old self. And he had always been a good enough actor to keep the poker face whenever they were around.

But the Winchesters were smarter than he gave them credit for. They picked solitude for his torture.

In the silence and the dark, he had no company except himself and the painful burning sensation in his chest. He had nothing to do except retreat into his own mind, a place that was anything but peaceful. At the moment it was barely functional as an engine of intended thought; rather it was a battleground of conflictions, and none of them felt as though they belonged to him. A desperate need to do something quickly, but no clue as to what that something was. An encroaching sense of anxiety, as if something was or had gone terribly wrong. A hatred that consumed him but had no direction. A hatred of that hatred.

No matter how much time he spent attempting to clear his mind, it all raced back to him. Lingering echoes of sensations from that night. His mind, ever sharp, racing to new implications about his own condition – none of them comforting.

It was torture, and nothing he tried seemed to stop it. He hoped the Winchesters would never know how wisely they had been in choosing it.

The one relief he had was Kevin. The little prophet was of value to Crowley even when the demon was in chains and the situation looked bleak. In one word, Kevin was a distraction. The abundance of his malleability surpassed even Crowley's own ridiculously compromised condition, and that gave the demon comfort. As shallow as the practice was, manipulating another always gave a feeling of control. Such exercises always cleared his mind.

But he was beginning to think he had gone too far perhaps, that first time. In his eagerness to distract himself, he had pushed the prophet too much. Either Kevin had fled the scene permanently of his own will, or the Winchesters had strongly suggested to the point of prohibiting the prophet from seeing Crowley again. Whatever the case, the demon had not seen the kid for weeks now.

Which was all well and good for Kevin. Not so much for Crowley.

The crushing silence was matched only by the oppressing dark. When the memories and latent human feelings weren't troubling him, the boredom was.

Not for the first time, he wished he had feigned being human enough to have human needs. A daily deliverance of food would have been a distraction to look forward to, and a trip to the bathroom every now and then would allow him quite the change of scenery, not to mention the possibility of an escape. But no – the Winchesters now knew they could leave him to himself for weeks on end. And now the only question that remained was how long it would take for his pride to die enough in order for him to take to yelling for attention.

A sound. It was a ways off but in his time in the dungeon, Crowley had learned to recognize it. The door to the hallway beyond being unlocked. Someone was coming.

He steeled himself as the lights flicked on. Despite the fact his powers were largely bound by the demon trapped chains, his sense of smell remained sharp as ever. He identified the unique aroma of the younger Winchester a mile off… and more than that the metallic scent of blood.

Odd that he was suddenly so aware of that particular smell.

Sam pulled open the retractable shelves and Crowley smiled smugly as he noticed a paper in the hunter's hand. It was bargaining time.

"How many languages do you know?" Sam got right to the point. Crowley refrained from looking surprised – it was not the typical "Demon names?" question he had gotten used to expecting.

"Not even a 'good morning'?" Crowley ignored the question and countered with one of his own. Extending the conversation as long as possible was his only interest at the moment.

"Crowley, none of us like the fact that you live in our basement. Likewise, none of us are ever excited to have to deal with you."

"And yet here we are."

Sam ignored him and considered the paper he had brought with him. Crowley could only see the back of it, but he clearly noticed the paper already had writing on it.

"You never answered my question. How many languages do you know?"

"Enough to get by."

"Get by where?" came the critical question.

"Anywhere." Crowley shrugged. "Before I was King of all Hell, I was King of the Crossroads. We didn't just operate in 21st century America. I headed a global department."

"What about ancient languages?"

"What about them?"

"Do you know any?"

"It always pays to know ancient languages. Those were the times of real magic – not this ridiculous new age crap," Crowley sniffed disdainfully.

"So you know some then?"

"Enough to get by."

Crowley had never seen Sam look so frustrated.

"Why all the questions, Moose? Planning to rent me out to a museum? I won't deny I'd love a change of scenery… fresh blood to acquaint myself with…"

In response Sam placed a piece of paper in front of Crowley. Crowley recognized the Elamite cuneiform in a heartbeat. Heart of a Nephilim**, **Cupid's bow, Grace of an angel. As far as he could tell, they were listed as ingredients. If the Winchesters were trying to work a spell, it was heavy stuff.

However, Crowley's goal was not to be helpful, but rather to further his own interests. And in this case, he knew he should attempt to get something in return.

"I've been politely asking for reading material for weeks, and this is what you bring me?" Crowley looked up at Sam. "Pass."

"Can you read Elamite or not?"

"It's by no means my favorite of the ancient tongues, but yes," Crowley acknowledged.

"Will you help us read it?"

"Why on Earth would I?"

"Because I was there that night. I saw what humanity did to you. Like it or not, there's still a little part of you that's not a douche," Sam told him. Almost as if it was reminded by the Winchester's mention of the night, the demon's neck throbbed slightly. Crowley ignored it.

"Sorry, Moose. To the last drop," he told the Winchester stubbornly. Sam almost laughed.

"Crowley, the only reason you're alive is because my brother thought you'd be useful. So far you've done jack."

It was true. Crowley was only too aware of his current position as the Winchester's prisoner. He would have to give them a reason to keep him alive soon, but there was still some room to work the situation.

"Back to Plan B I guess," Sam said, drawing his attention back to the present.

"Which is…?" Crowley inquired.

"Give you up to Abaddon."

Crowley's mind raced. Abaddon? She was still in play? Of course she was. He had been so wrapped up in his own problems he hadn't even thought of her until now. Regime change – that was what she had said. And now he was locked up in this dungeon. Which could only mean one thing.

She was tearing up his kingdom. The thought burned through his mind, inciting a rage that felt almost comforting to his demonic half.

"You think you can threaten me with that hack? She's all fury… no finesse!" Crowley spat viciously, venting some of his rage at the Winchester before him.

"I'm not so sure… our last encounterwith Abaddon, she was, uh… she was pretty terrifying. Scarier than you've been in years," Sam said with a smile.

A wave of inexplicable frustration washed over him. Abaddon was out trashing his kingdom, while the Winchesters were keeping him as a pet. Ever since his mind had decided to have a nuclear meltdown because of some hemoglobin, plasma, and Winchester DNA, for once in his long life it seemed if there was no viable option in front of him. He felt as if a fever was coming on… cold on the outside, yet hot on the inside. And to top things off there was still an obnoxious Winchester standing in front of him, trying to play some ridiculously obvious manipulation game.

"Bring that to me." The demon gestured to the paper. Sam considered him for a moment before bringing the paper over. Crowley looked it over again, making sure he had memorized the spell correctly.

He needed more time to think, and yet he wanted to keep the Winchesters attention at his beck and call.

He needed a temporary delay.

In that split second he had made up his mind, he crumpled the paper and threw it in Sam's face. The hunter was less than pleased, and he quickly left as Crowley sat in a pretense of a smug toddler. As soon as the Winchester was gone, he dropped his expression.

Abaddon was bad news, but at least it kept his mind off even less pleasant matters. Figuring out a plan for her would keep his mind occupied for the foreseeable future – if indeed a plan needed to be made. Surely his subjects had not all abandoned him – there had to be at least some who appreciated how smoothly everything ran in Hell under his reign.

Abaddon could never be as good of a ruler as him. Could she? Was she already ruling? How much progress had she made in his absence?

The more he considered all the possibilities, the more they drove him mad. For every reassurance he gave himself, there was a paranoid voice in the back of his head saying the opposite. He had made Hell run smoother than all its previous rulers combined… and yet he had run a hierarchy of fear. His underlings didn't like him – they respected and feared him. Abaddon would foreseeably have them do the same… but what if they liked her methodology better? Crowley had always been so much more professionally oriented than most demons. Civil, almost. There were many demons who preferred a more bloody approach to business… and Abaddon might just win their support due to such preferences.

But all this speculation might be completely in vain, given he had nothing to work off of.

The lack of information was unbearable, and the Winchesters weren't exactly likely to give him helpful material, if any at all. No… the best way to get the information he wanted would be to make contact with the hag herself.

He needed a phone call. And hopefully that would be just agreeable enough to barter for with the Winchesters.

"MOOSE! I WANT ANOTHER WORD WITH YOU!" Crowley shouted through the empty basement. For a moment there was nothing but silence in response.

"MOOSE!" Crowley bellowed. Another minute passed by, then finally he heard the click of the lock again. The bookcase slid back to reveal a mildly peeved Sam.

"I'll do it," Crowley told him. "But I want something in return."

"And what's that?"

"A telephone call," Crowley stated simply.

Sam rolled his eyes and began to leave.

"Come on, Moose… even Dahmer got one telephone call…" Crowley called as the hunter left. He knew it would take a minute or two, but the Winchesters would agree to the bargain – it helped that it was a widely recognized right of human prisoners. All he had to do was wait it out.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Sam returned. Much to Crowley's surprise, however, this time Kevin accompanied the hunter. The prophet glared at Crowley, which the demon supposed was a step up from refusing to meet his gaze. But regardless, neither human seemed inclined to partake in pleasantries, and instead they thrust the sheet before him once more.

"What are these?" Sam asked him.

Crowley recognized it was a test to check the legitimacy of his ability to translate, but that didn't he mean he couldn't make the interaction as difficult as possible. He was bored, after all.

"Ingredients," he told Sam.

"More specific," Sam requested impatiently.

"Ingredients… for a spell," Crowley said**, **pushing the paper back towards them with a smile. Sam pointedly returned it to him with an unimpressed look.

Crowley sighed and commenced with the translation. "Heart of a Nephilim, Cupid's Bow, Grace of an Angel."

Kevin immediately came forward and placed another sheet in front of him. "And the rest of them."

Crowley turned to him, eyeing the prophet. "Phone. Call," he said, refusing. "You'll get the rest when I get paid."

Kevin glanced at Sam who nodded ever so slightly. It was fair. However pathetically small, Crowley felt a sense of triumph.

"Now," he said pleasantly, looking at both of them. "Who's going to be a dear and open up a vein?"

Sighing, Sam left, presumably to go get some sort of bowl and materials. Crowley waited for Kevin to follow, but was surprised when the prophet remained.

"How are you**, **Kevin?" Crowley turned his attention fully to the young man.

"Better than you," Kevin replied, unmoving.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that… roof over my head, three square meals, get to spend time with my favorite humans… I think I'm beginning to enjoy it here."

"Keep telling yourself that," Kevin replied viciously. Surprisingly, Crowley could think of nothing to say in return. The prophet seemed to be taking lessons from the Winchesters on how not to be bothered by a mother-murdering demonic presence. Unhappily, it crossed Crowley's mind that he ought to be careful, or he might lose his one source of entertainment and subsequent distraction.

The silence was comfortable for Crowley, but not so much for Kevin. The prophet continued to steal dark looks at the demon, if only to make sure he was chained to his chair. Despite the distraction Kevin offered, Crowley found himself ignoring the prophet, as something else had just presented itself to his mind.

Sam's words about humanity had been a brief jab in a conversation several hours ago… and yet they remained with him. He couldn't stop thinking about it. That was what the blood had been hadn't it? Humanity?

He found himself obsessing over… obsessing over the slow feeling that the injections had given him… found himself… wanting to experience it again?

No. No, he didn't want that. He wanted to forget that feeling.

What was wrong with him?

Without his direct intention, his mind leaped to calculate swiftly as he heard Sam's heavy footsteps in the hallway, just outside. The Moose had been doing the trials – and he had nearly died because of them. If he continued the trials, or if the trials were continued by using him… he would regress to that state again. They would all know something was up.

Sam strode into the room and set down a bowl and pack on the table in front of Crowley. As the hunter opened the latter, Crowley saw the syringes that they had used on him. The sight made him something inside him twinge.

Picking up a syringe, Sam prepared to put it into his vein, and Crowley instantly spoke without thinking.

"Ah, ah, ah…" Crowley made a noise, stopping Sam in his motions.

"What?" Sam was in no mood for games.

"Not yours. His." He nodded to Kevin, who was instantly indignant.

"What difference does it make?!" Sam asked**, **irritated.

"I've already had yours. Stuck in here, can't fault me for wanting a little variety."

"No way!" Kevin protested immediately.

"What's wrong, short round… 'fraid of needles?"

"No. I just have a policy of not giving blood to anyone who's murdered my mother."

"I… have nothing but time," Crowley told them. It was true.

"You're a dick," Sam replied, and began to pack up the syringes.

"Good luck with that translation," Crowley delivered the pressure line, just as he had for countless deals before. It was the last sling that always brought the buyer to their knees. He knew it would be just as effective here as it was anywhere else.

It only took a few seconds before Kevin moved forward, grabbed a syringe from Sam, and plunged it into the crook of his arm.

It was no easy feat to maintain his appearance of calm, as he watched the scarlet liquid slowly fill the syringe. He could smell the metallic tang of the substance, and hear his own suit's blood pounding in his ears. The burning in his chest intensified, demanding to be fed. His eyes watered.

All in good time. Patience was a virtue he'd just have to pretend to have for the moment.

Sam took the filled syringe from Kevin, and emptied it into the bowl in front of Crowley. The demon watched the blood spurt with an unhealthy interest, and felt a surge of… something akin to excitement when Sam set the syringe down, not entirely empty. The Winchester then looked at Crowley expectantly.

Business before pleasure.

"Inferni sectetore nunc audite regem," Crowley recited. Instantly, the blood became animated.

_"You've reached Hell. Please state your name and business."_

"This is Crowley," Crowley announced proudly. "Connect me to-"

_"Please state your name and business."_

"Crowley," he repeated. Sam looked at him curiously. "Bad connection," he explained.

_"Please state your name-"_

"CROWLEY," the demon king repeated a third and final time frustratedly. "Your King."

_"What is your business, my liege?"_

"If you don't connect me to Abaddon right away…"

_"Please wait for a moment while your call is transferred."_ There was a noise like sizzling hiss, and soon Crowley heard the scratchy strains of the Blue Danube.

"What?" Sam asked predictably. Crowley scowled.

"I've been placed on hold."

The seconds ticked by agonizingly slow. The hunter and the prophet stared expectantly at Crowley, but he for the most part ignored the fact they were watching him, preferring instead to commit to memory the very tangible need to flay alive the demon who was currently operating the transfer desk.

When several minutes had passed, Sam spoke up again.

"How long does it take to transfer a demonic phone call?"

"Can it, Moose."

"Crowley, you got your call," Kevin started.

"Yeah, it's time," Sam echoed.

"It's time when I bloody well say it's time-" Crowley started angrily, but suddenly the blood call before him connected. "-Hello, Abaddon!"

_"Crowley… how in the Hell are you?"_ the demon-ness's confident voice came across the call.

"Right as a rain of blood, love. Despite a few concerning reports that have reached me regarding your recent activities."

_"Concerning doesn't even begin to cover it, Crowley. Hell is officially no longer yours."_

"Are you sure? Running Hell is a job meant for someone with a high capacity intellect. You might find it… a little beyond you."

_"Really? Well I think I think I'm doing quite fine at the moment."_

"And how are the numbers?"

_"You mean souls? I've managed to double on your projections. Now how did I ever pull off such a feat?"_

"You're taking souls before their time," Crowley realized, "voiding my contracts!"

_"That's right. I'm taking it all down. Brick by brick. The days of Crowley, King of Bureaucrats… are done."_ At Abaddon's smug words, Crowley felt the anger building inside him again. It was worse than he'd imagined.

"You ganky, PUTRESCENT, skanger! May look like bean counting to you, may lack a certain adolescent flair, but my way… works!" Crowley's fury was tangible, but in chains it was hard to express in any other way except frustration. "You think you can control Hell with chaos alone? Without the support of those who are STILL LOYAL TO ME?"

_"No one's seen you in weeks, and last I saw you, Howdy and Doody had you tied up nice and tight. Seems to reason they've turned you into a kennel dog…" _Abaddon paused slightly, as if she might be half laughing. _"How does it feel Crowley? To be the Winchesters' bitch?"_

Crowley sat in silent fury, his mind working furiously to come up with a response. But there was none. There was no way to negate the humiliation of his situation.

_"It's been fun indulging in your bluffs… but we both know you have no real authority left. No leverage. You have nothing to offer me. You have… nothing,"_ Abaddon concluded smugly.

"Your way will backfire," the demon king promised her, "You. Will. Burn."

_"I. Can't. Wait,"_ the demon queen responded, before ending the call.

The blood fell quiet, and Crowley slowly pushed the bowl away, lost in thought. Hell was going up in flames at the hand of a female ginger Nero who probably couldn't even play the fiddle. And he was here. Locked up in a dungeon, unable to do nothing about it.

"Crowley?" Sam's voice brought him back to the present. That was right. He had made a deal to get the call. And now it was time to fulfill it.

For a moment he considered refusing. He certainly didn't feel like being helpful after that disappointing experience. But after a moment logic and… something else got the better of him. If Abaddon was set on waging a civil war in Hell, Crowley would be damned again before going down without a fight. And he would need allies.

The Winchesters hated Abaddon just as much as Crowley did, on principle alone. It would take some building, but now was the time to start building up to it with a little cooperation and civility.

More than that… integrity was apparently the only staple he had left, compared to Abaddon. It was the only quiet superiority he could hold over her. She would never see it for what it was, but clients valued it, as did the Winchesters. As did Crowley.

It was what set him apart from her. And it made him better than her.

"Bring me the translations."

Sam and Kevin glanced at each other, respectively shocked and suspicious. Crowley didn't care what they thought of him, but he reinforced his own thinking to them anyway.

"I keep my agreements."

Kevin stared at him, mildly surprised, before jolting back to reality and retrieving the translations from the set of shelves nearby. Sam went over to join him.

It was his moment of opportunity, and Crowley seized it. Swiftly and subtly, he swiped the syringe of blood lying next to the bowl and shoved it up his jacket sleeve and out of sight. It was just in time too, for a second later Kevin found the paper and handed it to Sam, who in turn came over and placed it before the demon.

Crowley took the sheet and scanned it over. Then he began to read it aloud in English.

"Obtain the ingredients, Heart… bow… grace… blah blah blah, mix until the smoke shall rise from the ashes, casting the angels from Heavenblah blah…" Crowley paused. Not only was this apparently THE spell that had resulted in the magnificent angel shower, but there was something more.

"Oh…Hmm." Crowley set the paper down, considering. Then he looked up at the waiting Winchester and prophet. "It's irreversible."

"What?" Sam asked, brow furrowed.

"This spell can't be undone," Crowley said, looking at it again. "The new world order… we're stuck with it."

Sam and Kevin were more than disappointed, but they didn't deign to discuss it with him. Kevin took the paper and left without another word. Sam gathered the syringes and bowl and followed him, a bit slower. Before he left, however, he paused slightly.

"Thanks,Crowley."

"You're welcome," Crowley acknowledged, without looking at the hunter. He really just wanted to be alone.

And soon enough he was. Though Sam had his hands full and left the shelves open, he vanished through the doorway and down the hallway beyond.

Crowley was alone.

The demon paused for a just a moment, telling himself he would take it slow and cautiously. With this attitude in mind, he produced the syringe and looked it over.

There wasn't much left – probably less than an ounce. But hopefully it would be enough.

He lifted the syringe to his nose and breathed deeply. Kevin was O positive, a universal donor – he had known that from back when he had cut off the prophet's finger. Crowley had always prided himself on his refined senses and ability to identify as much as inhumanly possible.

But now he was looking for a different quality – one he knew the prophet's blood would have just by principle: purity.

Sam had done the forgive-me-father before beginning the injections, but Crowley suspected Kevin would be a suitable replacement. The demon knew the prophet well: not only was he a voice piece for the word of God, but he was innocent and full of pure intentions. He was the sort of person who sacrificed his life for the Winchesters' cause on circumstance because he bought the idea that it was 'the right thing to do' – a truly good individual. Kevin's only animosity was his hatred of Crowley himself, and that was born of the purest intention of all – his love for his mother.

Slowly and methodically, Crowley angled the syringe and plunged it into his wrist. The metal was cold in temperature, but the moment he began to empty the contents, the sensation changed.

Crowley nearly gasped as Kevin's blood spread like liquid fire up his arm. He could feel the warmth of emotion spreading through him – but it was more than just warmth. It was the prophet's burning hatred, directed at the demon himself. It stung and seared inside Crowley, such to the point where it crossed his mind he might regret having done it. But no – it made him feel so _alive_.

After a second or two, the intense initial burning subsided and turned into a general warmth that spread throughout the demon, and he sat back, enjoying the feeling. The sensation filled all of him, from the tips of his limbs, returning to swirl in his chest. Crowley breathed hard as a wave of emotion passed over him. A pain of a nature decidedly not physical began slowly to fill his center, causing his eyes to water.

But this was what he wanted.

It had never felt so good to feel truly terrible. But anything was better than feeling nothing at all.


	3. Keep Your Friends Close

**Chapter 3**

Keep Your Friends Close…

* * *

><p>Kevin felt… nothing.<p>

And then he felt something.

And then he felt nothing again.

It was a peculiar sort of sensation, with no discernible pattern; it alternated quickly, slow at first, then fast, then slow again. One moment he was floating... the next he was grounded. Then he was floating again for an hour or so. Then he was on the cold ground.

For a while he enjoyed the sensation of nothingness – it was so much better than the previous worry and rush of the stressful life he had been living. But soon he grew bored. However much he had hated his life with the Winchesters, he had grown accustomed to it. Accustomed to having a greater purpose – and accustomed to doing something in pursuit of that purpose.

And so he began to focus his abstract thoughts. He felt light as air – as if he had no physical form. But at least he had his thoughts to himself, distracted as they may occasionally be.

The next time he felt the cold ground beneath him, he concentrated on it. And to his satisfied surprise, he remained on that concrete surface for a good minute or so.

The time after that he concentrated even more specifically and began to catch a whiff of that familiar compendium of smells that belonged only to the bunker basement.

It took a good dozen tries, but soon Kevin acquired all his senses, and opened his eyes to find himself lying on the floor of the bunker basement. His momentary feeling of triumph caused him to waver a bit, but he held on and stabilized himself.

He sat up and considered where he was. The bunker basement. He knew that. But… what?

His mind was curiously fuzzy for some reason, as if it did not want to focus on the reality at hand. But he hadn't been an advanced placement student for nothing. No weird ADHD would stop him now. He had… something to do?

He tried to remember what he was thinking about, but he could not. It suddenly occurred to him he probably should attempt to find Sam and Dean.

No. Not Sam. Sam was not an option. The prophet couldn't remember why, but he definitely knew he shouldn't go to Sam.

Kevin got to his feet, but the action caused more noise than he intended, and instantly it drew the attention of the other occupant of the bunker's basement.

"Kevin?" came the patronizing call. A low burning rage ignited in Kevin's chest, and he moved to the shelves, grasping them firmly. Fueled by anger, he pulled them open with no trouble, and found himself facing the monster that he despised more than any other being in creation.

"What's up, Kev? Come to see little old me to avoid Squirrel's tantrum? Can't say I blame you. It'd probably be a domestic abuse case if anyone tried to intervene," Crowley remarked smugly, tilting his head.

"What are you talking about?" Kevin asked slowly.

"Are you deaf? Surely you heard that ruckus about an hour ago. Even in this putrid depth of despair, it sounded like he was throwing furniture."

"I don't…" Kevin wavered. Dean was upset? Kevin's mind couldn't quite supply him with the reason why, only the feeling that it made sense, and it was strangely comforting.

"You don't know?" Crowley tsked like a disappointed mother. "I thought I'd taught you to be more observant than that Kevin. Observant people are always more valuable than unobservant ones."

"Like I'd tell you anything, anyway," Kevin retorted.

"Fair enough," Crowley acknowledged with a shrug. "Though I don't see why it's a crime for me to take an interest in my housemate's wellbeing."

"Shut up," Kevin told him, scowling. The demon smiled but complied, watching the prophet with something akin to fondness. It made Kevin's skin crawl.

"Have you…" Kevin tried to put into words what he wanted, but found he was struggling. His mind flashed with scenes he couldn't remember… shouldn't remember. Sam… a hand outstretched. "… seen Sam lately?"

"Moose? Can't say that I have. No one has deigned to visit me in a good week. Why? He avoiding you too? Must be a schoolgirl crush thing."

"No, I just…" Kevin struggled to maintain his course of thought. "I… have to go."

Crowley watched the prophet leave curiously.

"Come visit me soon, lover?" he called after the prophet. Kevin angrily shoved the shelves closed on the grinning demon. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting by talking to Crowley, but whatever it was he hadn't gotten it. He turned and moved toward the doorway.

But he didn't make it three steps before he flickered.

It was that weird sensation of… not being. A snap in and out of being together. It felt like he had passed out or something, but… he wasn't on the floor.

What was wrong with him?

He made it to the door and down the hallway to the main part of the bunker, but when he stepped into the library he flickered again due to the sight that greeted him.

Crowley had been right. The bunker had been trashed in what appeared to be quite a rage. There were several chairs that had been hurled left and right, papers scattered all over the floor, and a lamp smashed on the ground. Over in the corner Kevin spotted his phone, which had been thrown against a wall and now lay broken. It vaguely crossed the prophet's mind he should be angry about the destroyed technology and yet…

"He said it was the only way, and I believed him…" at the familiar voice, Kevin turned to see Dean and Castiel seated at the library table. He made his way toward them.

"Now Sam's gone… Kevin's…" Dean gestured toward Kevin without looking him. The hunter was choked up. Kevin had never seen him like that before.

"I'm what?" Kevin asked. Neither hunter nor angel looked up.

"Dean. I'm sorry," Cas said genuinely.

"Yeah, well… Sorry don't pay the bills, does it?" Dean returned, sorrow and anger across his features. "It sure as hell won't bring Kevin back."

Back? Back from where? He was right here. Kevin's mind suddenly jammed, refusing to comprehend what Dean was saying. Why they were ignoring him?

A flash of memories distorted his vision. Dean was acting weird, requesting an angel spell. Kevin had told Sam. Sam had told him it was the least of his worries and then he had turned around... and it hadn't been Sam. It had been someone else, wearing Sam. Hand outstretched. Reaching forward…

Kevin staggered and put a hand out to grab the wall to brace himself from falling.

His hand went right through it. He crashed to the ground.

"No…" he whispered, looking at his hand fearfully. "No… it can't… I can't…" He tried to touch the nearby table leg, again with no success.

"No…" His voice broke as the realization came crashing down on him.

Dead. He was dead.

With that crushing realization, and the realization of all subsequently crushed dreams and plans for the future, his mind began to fragment and stray, and he flickered once, twice, four times. However after a good minute of existential crisis, it suddenly occurred to him it might not be the end after all. The idea started as a small thought of how unfair it was that the Winchesters were still alive.

"But that's just it… you Winchesters have each died like ten times, right?" he reasoned aloud. He seemed to remember Sam and Dean joking about it once to him in the bunker. Castiel and Dean both ignored him, continuing on with their chat.

"This can be fixed… probably," Kevin continued, reassuring himself. "I just need to get your attention…" He focused on Dean and Castiel intensely, with the intent to yell, scream, attempt to knock things over… anything to get their attention. But as he refocused on them, he tuned back into the conversation and what they were discussing.

"Sometimes that's all that matters. Listen to me… Sam is strong. If he knew an angel was possessing him, he could fight. He could cast the angel out."

Angel? So that was who was riding around in Sam. At least it brought some comfort to Kevin that it was indeed someone else who had killed him.

"Maybe. But as far as I know, he's in the dark. I don't know how we clue him in," Dean replied. Castiel crossed his arms, thinking.

"Do you remember Alfie?" the angel asked.

"That kid angel? Yeah. Why?"

"Before he died… he told me the demons were able to… dig into his mind. Access his coding," Castiel said thoughtfully. "We might be able to do that here. Might be able to… bypass the angel and talk directly to Sam."

"And you think that would work?" Dean's voice was now one of hope.

"I don't know. But I think we should try," Castiel declared.

"Okay. Where do we start?"

"Crowley," Kevin and Castiel said in unison. Kevin would've smiled if he thought either of them would have seen it.

"Crowley was the one who first developed the tactic to break angels," Castiel continued. "If anyone knows how to do it, it's him… you didn't kill him after the trial, did you?"

"What? Kill Crowley?" Dean grinned viciously. "Nah, we'd never let him off that easily. That SOB's locked up tight in our basement."

Kevin nodded subconsciously, when suddenly a new question occurred to him. If he was a ghost not yet strong enough to physically manifest to the living… how had Crowley seen and heard him?

It must have been because he was a demon. Technically also an undead human spirit. Twisted and tormented, but still originally human, and very much dead. That had to be it.

"Good." Castiel nodded. "But if we're going to deal with Crowley… he'll want something in return…"

"I've already got that covered," Dean said, shifting and moving off to a set of drawers on the other side of the library.

"You have something Crowley wants?" Castiel inquired.

"I do. And you had it too, before you got your mojo back."

"I don't understand what I could possibly have…"

"Humanity Cas. Humanity. The self-esteemed King of Hell has gone and gotten himself a craving for human blood. Sam caught him injecting Kevin's blood back when you and I were working that case in Idaho."

Kevin stopped short. Crowley had done what?

"That… is an unusual development," Cas reflected, surprised. "But not entirely unexpected. It's hard to return from touching humanity unchanged," the restored angel said uncomfortably.

Unusual development was far too tame a phrase for what Kevin was thinking. He felt like throwing up. Crowley had gone full-on Voldemort on him.

"I don't care how unusual it is. Right now we can use it as leverage," Dean said, dismissing Castiel's curiosity for the King of Hell's condition. The elder Winchester had found the syringe pack, and pulled one out. Without so much as a second thought, the hunter jammed it into his arm and filled it slowly. Cas and Kevin both watched him, lost in their own thoughts.

"Alright," Dean said, finishing up and packing the other syringes away. "Ready to go deal with the devil?"

Kevin followed Castiel and Dean down to the basement, but wavered outside Crowley's prison, more inclined to listen in then be a participant. For some reason, he didn't want Crowley to relay to Dean and Cas that Kevin was standing right there.

"Hello, Boys," Crowley greeted them with his usual opener.

"Here's the deal. You're gonna tell us how to hack an angel… and I'm going to give you some of the good stuff. Human blood. Fresh from the tap." Dean patted his arm.

"Please. I'll pass," Crowley rejected the offer.

"What do you want, then?" Castiel asked critically.

"Well… for starters… a massage," Crowley said, being predictably difficult. "Between the sitting and the shackles… body gets a little stiff."

"Yeah, I ain't rubbing you," Dean declared in a disgusted voice. Kevin wholeheartedly agreed.

"God no. Get Kevin," Crowley raised his voice slightly, as if he knew the prophet could hear him. "His tiny fists can really work wonders…"

"Kevin is dead," Castiel interrupted him flatly.

There was a beat as Kevin could practically hear the cogs turning in the demon king's head.

"Oh," Crowley said simply. Kevin decided now was the time to round the corner. For a brief moment, Kevin was sure that Crowley's eyes flickered to him. But when he next spoke, the demon merely gracefully accepted Castiel's news.

"I'm… sorry to hear that," Crowley told the angel.

"Don't pretend you care," Castiel replied angrily. "You tried to kill him."

"I told him this was going to happen." Crowley's eyes returned to Dean. "I was the only person who tried to warn him. I told him to run."

"From what?" Dean asked.

"From you. How many times am I going to have to say this? People, in your general vicinity, don't have much in the way of a lifespan."

Castiel and Dean were silent after that. They couldn't deny the pretty clear truth of the statement.

"Now… I can't teach you how to crack open an angel. It's more… art than science. But I can do it for you. All I ask in return… is a little field trip. Dying for some fresh air," Crowley informed them. "Chains on. Naturally."

"No," Dean said instantly.

"No… of course not. Because if I'm Plan A, I'm sure you have a totally viable, much better Plan B," Crowley reminded them smugly.

Dean looked at Castiel, with a face that said he was thinking about it. Castiel reacted instantly.

"You can't be considering this," the angel demanded.

"With the chains on he can't do anything," Dean argued.

"It's Crowley. He can always do something," Castiel retorted.

"Looks like we need a tie breaker," Crowley commented. "Go get Moose, Squirrel."

Dean and Castiel were silent again, and the demon king instantly realized why.

"Unless… unless of course you can't…" Crowley could barely contain his glee. "That's why you're here, isn't it? The poor giant baby's in trouble again, isn't he?"

"Are you done?" Dean asked, frowning.

"Depends. Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah."

"Excellent. When do we leave?" Crowley held up his chains.

"Soon as I can scrounge up a ride," Dean said, thinking about the problem.

"I have a vehicle. It stopped a few miles from here, inexplicably."

Crowley frowned, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Was it out of gas?" he asked the angel.

"Out of what?"

"Nevermind. I'll go get some of the stuff from the garage. Cas, you get the bag to escort His Douchiness out of here." Before Crowley could protest, Dean held up an accusatory hand. "Just because you're going on a field trip doesn't mean you get to know where this place is. We'll take it off once I say we're far enough away." Crowley looked mildly disappointed but didn't fight the point. Castiel nodded, and soon both he and the elder Winchester had left the dungeon in order to prepare for the trip.

Which left Kevin alone with Crowley.

After a moment or two of silence, Kevin began to be convinced he must have imagined it earlier. It was very clear now that Crowley was unaware of the prophet's presence – and very much wrapped up in his own thoughts and nothing else. Still, it was better to be sure.

"HEY DOUCHEBAG!" the prophet yelled suddenly. Crowley did not react. Kevin was as inaudible as he was invisible, apparently.

The more Kevin watched the demon, the more the animosity rose within him again. It was just so UNFAIR. All he had ever been was a good guy – and all he had ever done was the right thing. And yet here he was – dead and apparently burned, while scum like the King of Hell still walked the Earth.

It was funny actually, Kevin reflected, once his anger had subsided from a pure rage back down to a general discontent. Here he had always blamed Crowley for his problems and been worried that CROWLEY would be the source of his demise… when actually it had been the Winchesters in the end.

"I guess just because you're evil doesn't mean you aren't right about some things," Kevin muttered in Crowley's general direction.

Crowley predictably didn't appear to register the comment. But he did tilt his head in an unusual fashion as if he was considering something. Kevin found himself watching the demon's features closely to see if he gave away any notion of what he was thinking… or planning.

A moment passed and Crowley's thoughts did not reveal themselves to the empty room, much to Kevin's mild disappointment. Soon Crowley's thoughtful demeanor was altogether replaced as a sound at the other end of the basement warned them of the Castiel's return.

Kevin watched as Crowley settled his face back into a smug smile. Castiel opened the doors and brought forward the dark cloth bag to put over the demon's head.

"Really, don't you think we should have a dinner date first?" Crowley asked with a patronizing smile. Castiel shoved the bag over said smile without any hesitation.

"Don't think about trying anything. I am an angel, and I will burn you as soon as you give me reason," Castiel told the King of Hell levelly. Crowley shrugged and tilted his neck to allow Cas better access to the collar that bound him.

"This is going to end badly," Kevin prophesied, as the angel unlocked the demon. Neither listened to the prophet's prediction.

"You two kids ready?" Dean's voice echoed down from down the hallway.

"All set," Castiel called back.

"Mmmffff-phrg!" Crowley presumably said something witty inside his cloth prison. However, instead of attempting to discern what the demon's words were, Castiel merely took some chalk and drew across the devil trap on the floor, before roughly escorting Crowley across and through the door.

Kevin followed their slightly hazardous trip down the hallway, a forlorn feeling growing inside his spirit. He didn't know much about ghosts – the Winchesters hadn't really deigned to teach him anything about hunting really – but he did remember one tidbit Garth had shared with him, back when the other hunter had put him up on the houseboat. Garth had attempted to explain, and confused himself in the process, how ghosts were tied to a particular place, usually where they died and had unfinished business. To deal with them you had to burn their bones, or whatever relic of them remained behind, binding them to the Earth.

Kevin wasn't sure what was binding him, since Dean had apparently burned his body – which was weird enough to think about – but the prophet wasn't short on logic by any means. Whatever it was, it had to be in the bunker. Which meant Kevin was staying in the bunker.

Once again, Kevin realized Crowley had been right – they both were prisoners, now more than ever. Except Crowley was getting a shot at the sunlight, and, knowing the demon king, Kevin was willing to bet he wouldn't be coming back.

Kevin followed the odd party all the way to the door, which Dean opened and led the way out of. But that was it for Kevin. He stopped just short of the edge of the staircase that led up to the outside world, resigned to his fate to be left behind. As Dean slowly shut the door and locked it, Kevin sighed turning away.

For a moment he stood there, wondering what to do with himself and his apparent afterlife. The ghosts the Winchesters faced killed people – they could certainly move objects. Maybe if he concentrated, in a week he'd be able to press a remote button to turn on the TV…

Then it happened. The pull.

Kevin was caught so off guard, he flickered out of existence and back into it on the ground, a few feet closer to the door. He barely had time to register the strange happening before he was jerked again, upright, straight into the door. It was as a giant clamp had been placed around his midsection and stomach – if he had had either of those. The force dragged him forward relentlessly, straight through the cracks below the warded iron door. The contact with the metal was so painful, Kevin howled and flickered out of existence. When he came to, he was outside.

After another vicious pull, he managed to get to his feet and start heading in the direction of the pull. His mind was racing. What was happening to him? Was he being pulled to some afterlife? Or was…

Kevin stopped. As soon as he had rounded the bend, he saw Dean, Castiel and Crowley not too far away, striding down the road like the odd trio that they were.

The mysterious force tugged him in their direction.

Setting off reluctantly, Kevin considered the situation. Why was he being pulled after them? He was bound to the Bunker… or to something of his. But Dean had smashed his cell phone and left everything else in the bunker. Kevin stopped unintentionally, thinking about it. It made no sense.

Up ahead, the party was suddenly disturbed by one small crack in the street that no one had warned Crowley about. The blindfolded demon king stumbled over a rock in a very ungraceful manner and took a few steps to the side before recovering himself.

That was when Kevin felt it again. The pull, tugging him forwards in their direction. Or more specifically, the direction of the stumbling demon.

_"Sam caught him injecting Kevin's blood back when you and I were working that case in Idaho."_

"No…" Kevin couldn't stop himself from saying. It couldn't be possible. He tried to resist the pull, but Crowley – and the Tran blood injected into his forearm – had started moving again, and no matter how hard he resisted, the prophet was dragged along.

Kevin Tran, deceased prophet of the Lord, was bound to haunt the King of Hell.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Fear not only one more chapter of canon rewrite, and then we are DONE. Spiraling off into the madness that is original plotlines and obsessively manipulated lore. Brace yourselves._


	4. Freedom

**Chapter 4**

Freedom

* * *

><p>The situation was even more delectable than he could have imagined. Moose had been possessed by an angel, and they were letting HIM possess the younger Winchester, and in return he would get his freedom. Crowley couldn't help but smile as he settled into the chair and tilted his neck for Dean to unlock the collar.<p>

As it fell, he breathed for the first time in months. The rush of sensation of power came back to him… but it wasn't quite like he remembered it. It was power. It wasn't… feeling.

Crowley swiftly pushed his traitorous thoughts to the back of his mind and focused on the task at hand. Strangely enough, he barely considered the option of running right then and there. It would have been easy to zap out… but he had made a deal. And keeping faithful to that integrity was what made him better than Abaddon. Besides, it always paid to be on less-bad-terms with the Winchesters for the moment.

The demon sized up the angel in front of him. Crowley knew he wouldn't stand much of a chance in a firefight – not after having been severed from Hell for so long. But the angel was weak too, and all the feather dusters these days were severed from Heaven.

Crowley didn't really believe in the concept of luck. But if it was real, it would probably be the deciding factor in this showdown.

"When you find him… say Poughkeepsi,." Dean told him, "It's our 'Go' word – it means drop everything and run."

"Fine. While I'm gone… hands off the suit," Crowley replied succinctly. He hadn't kept this one in near pristine condition so long to have it soiled the first time he vacated it within Winchester reach.

The demon turned back to the angel.

"I will destroy you," it promised in Sam Winchester's voice.

"Eat me," he replied with a smile.

Then he was out. Free. Spiraling in the air in his purest form. He could see and experience everything and nothing at the same time. Then he found the younger Winchester and dove in, and everything went dark.

Normally in a possession, the first item on the agenda was to spread out, connect with the senses, ease into control of the vessel, and lock the soul up tight in the mind where they could scream all to themselves.

But this possession was different from the start – Crowley knew that going in. Instead of arriving in grandeur, the powerful presence announcing itself as the sole ruler of the realm… he was entering as a hidden entity. The longer the angel couldn't find him, the more time he had to locate Sam unimpeded.

And so it was Crowley found himself in Sam's mind – a purely mental realm. And it looked… oddly like the bunker he had just left. The basement he had been imprisoned in. It made sense that he had arrived there of all places – it was after all, not only the only part of the bunker Crowley recognized, but also where Sam expected him to be. Therefore, it was where he had been naturally inserted into the fantasy.

The demon king concentrated his thoughts and solidified his own consciousness into a form Sam would recognize. He suddenly realized how fortunate he was that Sam's fantasies didn't specify him being tied up quite like reality. A little disappointing on the sexy scale perhaps, but helpful in practicality.

As soon as he had fully manifested himself, Crowley turned from the mirror image of the empty chair where he had spent several months and proceeded to what he had been longing to do for that same amount of time. He went through the door and into the hallway.

Since they were first and foremost infernal, ethereal beings, demons did not rely on competent electric current exchanges inside the physical brain to recall memories. As such, Crowley had an eidetic memory. Indeed, after they had made him walk the whole distance to the car earlier that morning, the demon king was now privy to the knowledge of where the Winchester's new 'bunker' was – 2,560 steps from where they had taken the bag off of his head, with one 116˚ turn right at the 2,280 mark.

But though Crowley knew exactly how many steps it had taken Castiel to roughly haul him down the hallway and up the stairs, he had never seen the place with his own two eyes. And it was impressive.

He wasn't sure when he had begun suspecting the Men of Letters as the culprits behind the Winchesters' new campground, but the fantasy library inside Sam's mind, if it was anywhere close to the reality – which Crowley knew it had to be in order to keep Sam believing in it – certainly confirmed Crowley's theory. The demon let out a low impressed whistle as he stepped into the main room.

Decades wasted to get into the place, and the way he finally managed an infiltration was to be humiliatingly captured by Rocky and Bullwinkle. Tragically ironic.

As Crowley was looking around, he heard a noise directly behind him. The demon quickly turned, game face on, expecting to confront Sam or the angel – only to find he could not hide his surprise.

"Kevin?!" the word slipped from Crowley's lips before he could stop it.

"You-!" the prophet's eyes widened at the sight of Crowley. He looked like he was about to shout for help. Crowley may have been shocked by the Kevin's presence, but it didn't stop him from remembering where he was. And the fact there was an angel on the hunt for him.

In one swift move, the demon king moved behind Kevin, grabbing and twisting one of the prophet's arms, and clamping a hand over the boy's mouth. Kevin instantly protested, but Crowley ignored him.

"Sorry Kev, but as much as it pains me to say it, you're dead and gone. And while necrophilia is not beyond the scope of my interests as a demon, this version of you is nothing more than an extension of dearest Samantha's fantasy. And I am a genuine article kind of guy," Crowley spoke to no one in particular as Kevin struggled against him. As the prophet continued to resist the demon's iron hold, Crowley regarded him, "You know, when someone has you in this sort of hold, the first thing you should do is bi- ah, there you go! You always were a quick learner." Crowley grinned, barely wincing as Kevin bit down on his hand. Then, he sobered up and focused once again on the task at hand.

"As much as I'd love to release you short round, there's no guarantee you won't go scurrying off to let the angel know I'm here, so… AGH!" Crowley was cut short when Kevin grabbed a pencil off the nearby table and stabbed it straight into the demon's eye. As they were all inside Sam's head and nothing was real, the injury didn't hurt. But the surprise was sudden and shocking enough to make Crowley falter and release his grip. Kevin quickly escaped.

"Damn." Crowley pulled the pencil out of his eye and looked to Kevin instantly… and was extremely surprised to see the prophet had not run off, but was rather staring at him levelly, eyes hardened with hatred.

"Well, I'll give Gadreel a nine out of ten for his replica of you at any rate… the real Kevin would have sanitary objections to biting a demon," Crowley said slowly, watching Kevin.

"Why did you inject my blood into your arm?" Kevin asked coldly.

"My, my… the fantasy is spun so well you have your own questions and concerns," Crowley realized, more than a little impressed. When Kevin said nothing in reply, the demon considered how he should answer the question.

"It was irresistibly kinky. Couldn't pass up the opportunity." Crowley smiled savagely, "Also you know, essence of prophet – you're bound to be valuable in some respect. Thought maybe it would be interesting to see what a transfusion would do. Who knows? Maybe I won't need the new prophet now, given I'm about 1/256th prophet now." Crowley flexed his forearm, ran a thumb over the injection site. Sure he was lying through his teeth, but the King of Hell had always been an excellent fabricator. If the Winchesters couldn't typically tell, he was certain the prophet wouldn't. And besides, this wasn't even the real Kevin.

"I don't believe you. You did this on purpose. You've always been interested in my suffering," Kevin declared angrily. Crowley blinked, before consciously forcing himself not to focus on the prophet.

"Believe what you want, fake prophet. You're ancient history now, and I have more pressing matters to attend to." The demon king turned and was pleased to see Sam was only a short way off.

"You'll pay for this. And for everything else you've done to me," Kevin's voice promised him.

"Yeah, too bad I wasn't lucky enough to kill you. Then I'd really have something to look forward to!" Crowley scoffed, not bothering to turn around but heading straight into the library where Moose was, leaving the prophet behind for good.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Out of memory.

. . .

"Think on this, lads… spread the word. Vote Crowley!" He snapped his fingers and the world evaporated around him. For a moment there was the black void of nothingness, then his feet came to rest on the solid ground of the Sheraton Cavalier Calgary Hotel. In Calgary, Alberta, Canada.

Free. The King was free at last.

Crowley couldn't keep the smug smile off his face as he looked around at the hotel lobby. The place was as busy as any five star hotel normally was during the dead of night, which is to say, it wasn't. There were a few individuals in the lobby, but fortunately none of them seemed to notice his supernatural arrival.

There was a computer in the lobby, which Crowley made quick use of, booking himself the penthouse suite with a wire transfer from one of his many limitless accounts. After he was finished, he strode over to the front desk and spent only seven minutes convincing the receptionist of his identity, based on the online photo ID profile with which he had reserved the room, which he had obviously registered with his favorite vessel. Eventually she handed him the key, and within four more minutes, he was standing in a room of his own choosing, for the first time in at least four months.

"It's good to be free," Crowley said to no one in particular. He was completely alone, after all. It was an odd sensation. Between being King and the Winchester's prisoner, be hadn't been on his own for several years at least. Probably not since he had been on the run from Castiel-turned-God.

The King of Hell sat down on the edge of the bed absentmindedly, considering his situation. There was a very specific reason he had come to Canada of all places – there were barely any demons stationed there. Canadians were nice, intelligent people who held very few grudges. Not the best marks, as Crowley had unhappily discovered back in the 60s when he had attempted to establish a deal network akin to the one in America. It was one of the reasons he had almost laughed in Dick Roman's face when that had been the Leviathan's proposal.

Canada. Honestly.

Crowley paused. He was being absentminded. He was never absentminded.

The demon shook his head and cleared his thoughts. Now was not the time to give into whatever mess Sam Winchester had made of his demonic nature. Now was the time for planning and reconnaissance. He may be free, but he had no solid knowledge of the state Hell was in. And that needed to be rectified.

Crowley considered the phone on the nightstand. On one hand, there were some demons among his network that certainly were capable of tracing phone calls. On the other hand… the ginger from the 1950s probably wasn't quite up on the merits of modern technology. That was an advantage he'd be able to play. Surely.

Crowley moved thoughtfully over to the phone and picked it up, dialing a number. The phone rang several times, before the generic voice informed him he would be leaving a message at this particular number. The demon king waited patiently for the beep before he spoke.

"Cecily, love, it's your King. I'm not one to gloat but I can only imagine your meeting with Abaddon didn't go quite as well as you expected. If you're still alive give me a ring. I'll be using the phone I used for the Sheriff Mills profile last year. It will be worth your while," Crowley finished with a smile, before hanging up. Cecily was one of his most capable protégés, but unfortunately she had mirrored Crowley himself in almost every respect – including the extreme self-preservation that trumped loyalty any day.

But while Crowley understood and acknowledged those pseudo-virtues for their merits, Abaddon would not. The demon king found himself hoping Cecily hadn't overplayed her hand.

"Worried about subordinates now, are we?" Crowley asked himself, mildly displeased with the way his mind was continuing to trouble him. Perhaps before attempting to retake Hell, first he should see a doctor about what the Winchesters had done to him. If demonic doctors existed. Which they didn't.

Doctors… human doctors… they had come so far the past few centuries, learning how to perform surgeries, to manipulate hormones, to transfuse blood… that was especially a magnificent development. Donating and transfusing blood. They even had blood banks for it. Yes, humans had really discovered the value of blood… and they had some of it stored in every hospital…

Crowley was at the window, scanning the tops of the downtown skyscrapers for a helipad. Then he was at the nightstand scanning through the phonebook for a hospital. As he flipped through the pages he finally got a hold of himself and stopped for a brief moment.

What was he doing?

What he should have done a long time ago?

His fingers resumed their search, and soon he found a hospital. Two streets down.

He was there in the snap of his fingers. The hospital lobby, compared to the hotel, was extremely busy at night. No one noticed the black suited newcomer standing there as if in a fog.

Another snap he was on the fourth floor. He stole into a room where there was a single nurse. She looked up startled as he entered, but she had no time to register what was happening before Crowley was out of his traditional vessel, his red smoky essence spiraling in the air straight into the nurse.

Patient. Dying. Boyfriend. Cheating. Blood bank. Basement. 4th room on the Left.

Crowley found the knowledge inside her head and was out again before his typical suit hit the ground.

Another snap. He was in the basement. 4B, 6B… 7B. He paused slightly, realizing he was familiar with that number for some reason. It was the same number as the bunker room they had kept him in. His prison.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" a voice asked behind him. Crowley didn't bother to look around, but only held up a hand and twisted it sharply. There was a snap of a neck and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

The door was locked. Though he could have teleported inside, his fevered mind didn't seem competent enough to suggest it. Instead Crowley looked around swiftly and dropped to one knee, retrieving the key from the coat of the doctor on the floor behind him. Then he was in.

One packet. That was all he took. Surely that would be enough. Just a taste to remind him how stupid it was.

That was all it would ever be.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Annnnnd... officially done with the canon rewrite! Now to launch into the actual story!_


	5. Going Ghost

**Chapter 5**

Going Ghost

* * *

><p>The prophet stood just opposite the room from the King, eyes wide in disbelief as he watched the scene before him – an unexpected and disturbing plot twist in an already nightmarish play. Seated on the edge of the bed with syringe in hand, Crowley greedily withdrew blood from the pack he had stolen from the hospital room. When he finished, he raised the syringe to eye level, scrutinizing it as he bit his lip slightly in anticipation. Apparently satisfied, he lined it up against his arm tentatively, before apparently having a sudden thought to try it on the other arm this time.<p>

"No… that's wrong," Kevin was unable to help himself from protesting as he watched the demon puncture his own right wrist and push the syringe's plunger slowly and deliberately. As soon as he finished injecting the stolen blood into his borrowed veins, the King of Hell considered the pack of blood, and Kevin could practically see the progression of thought make its way across the demon's face. One syringe of blood wasn't enough.

Crowley refilled the syringe and plunged it into his arm again. Once. Twice. Three times.

When Crowley withdrew the syringe the third time, the demon paused, tilting his head and frowning slightly in a curious similar way to Castiel. Suddenly, he sucked in a sharp breath and shut his eyes sharply as he shuddered tremendously; the blood had begun to take an effect. As the horrified prophet looked on, the demon convulsed and attempted to heave the nonexistent contents of a stomach that had been empty for months over the edge of the bed. Before Crowley could recover, another convulsion came, forcing him to hastily stick out a hand to catch the nightstand and stop himself from collapsing off the bed himself. In the process however, he knocked the lamp off the small table. It hit the floor and the light went out, accompanied by a flash, a spark, and the sound of broken china.

In the half light from the city outside the window, Kevin watched the demon slowly right himself, breathing heavily and shivering like a dry leaf above an open flame. Crowley sat there for a moment, then slowly began to kick off his shoes. It took him awhile, given the uncooperativeness of his shaking limbs.

When he had finished, the demon gingerly collapsed back onto the bed. He was still shivering, but he seemed to lack the willpower to do anything about it. Instead he lay there, absent of motion save for the slight shaking, as some sort of dark liquid leaked out of the corners of his glossed over eyes leaving crimson trails in its wake. Tears of blood.

By this time, Kevin had seen enough. Throughout the entirety of the undertaking, he had been rooted to the spot by his fright, but now he was motivated enough to do one thing: leave. He backed away, still unable to tear his eyes from the sight, but reaching out with one hand subconsciously for the door handle. It was, however, an unsuccessful endeavor that resulted in him stumbling right through the wall.

In the warm light of the hallway, Kevin breathed heavily for a moment as he attempted to recollect himself. Removed from the dark horror of thescene he had just left, his utter terror began to subside somewhat quickly. However his mind would take more time to recover any semblance of composure.

He felt like he was the one that should be shaking. How had it come to this? Chained to a demon – and not just any demon, but the one who had ruined his life and now was involved in some sort of… black magic blood ritual. It was disgusting… and horrifying considering there was probably some ulterior motive Crowley had in mind. But human blood stolen from a hospital? What could Crowley possibly gain from that?

The sight of Crowley shooting up had disturbed Kevin more than he would have liked to admit. It wasn't just the syringe, it was the concept. The demon, using an unwary human's blood for his own gain. It had to have been nearly the same picture the first time, when Crowley stole the syringe of Kevin's blood and used it, resulting in the situation they were in now. It made Kevin feel sick just thinking about it.

Not for the first time, the prophet wondered how the Winchesters did it – facing the truly disturbing every day without having breakdowns of their own.

The Winchesters. There was something to think about to take his mind off the subject at hand. He wondered briefly how Sam and Dean were doing. When Kevin had last seen them, Cas and Dean were rushing a semi-conscious but finally unpossessed Sam out of the backdoor of the warehouse turned torture dungeon.

The prophet had been both fascinated and bored out of his mind, following Team Rescue Sam all of the previous day. Mostly it had proved to be frustrating above everything, as it had been a little like living in a disconcerting TV soap opera show where none of the characters acknowledged your existence and made incredibly stupid decisions regarding the demon who caused all the noteworthy suffering in your life, ultimately ending with making a deal to set said demon free. Needless to say, that particular succession of events had led to Kevin shouting himself hoarse at the elder Winchester.

Still no one had been able to hear him. It was middle school all over again.

But then something happened that Kevin did not expect – well two things, really. The first was that the plan actually worked. Crowley hadn't double crossed them or taken Sam out for a joy ride, but rather went toe to toe with an angel, doing even more than he promised he would.

However the surprise of Crowley's integrity was nothing compared to the second surprise that followed; when Crowley had possessed Sam, the demon's tour of the younger Winchester had not been a solo voyage. Kevin had been pulled along as well.

Over the course of the day, the prophet had reviewed what had happened a million times, and still found it beyond his comprehension. According to everything he knew about ghosts, they – well, he – was bound to a particular physical object that held some piece of himself. He had all but confirmed it was the blood Crowley had injected but… that blood should have stayed behind in Crowley's vacated vessel when the demon left to possess Sam. Instead Kevin found himself in the creepy ethereal fantasy within Sam's mind alongside the King of Hell… and what was more was that Crowley had been able to see him again.

The demon hadn't believed it was really him, which had suited Kevin just fine. It turned out that when Crowley thought he was alone, or rather, when he was without Kevin, he acted differently. The prophet had found that out rather quickly in his short unnoticed stay with the King of Hell. Crowley didn't spend all his time trying to sadistically manipulate Dean, or Castiel, or Sam… or anyone really. He treated them all rather civilly as equals, albeit equals he thought were decidedly less clever than him. Still, the point stood: Kevin was the only one that the demon put on his psychopath act for. Lucky him.

The rest of the day had passed without incident, or rather, without anything happening specifically to Kevin. Plenty of things had happened to Team Make Terrible Choices. Abaddon had been as attractive and terrifying in person as he had imagined, though Crowley had proved far smoother in his grasp of post-Neanderthal politics. The prophet found himself vaguely conflicted on who he thought would end up ruling Hell. He obviously hated Crowley, but after meeting Abaddon… suddenly he had realized why the Winchesters treated Crowley as less of a priority problem.

After a mildly troubling political speech, with a snap of Crowley's fingers they had suddenly arrived in Canada. Then, after a grand total of twenty six of the most disturbing minutes of his life, they were where they were now.

"No, not going to think about that," Kevin corrected himself. Lost in his thoughts, he had barely noticed that he'd begun to walk down the hallway. As he made it to the end, he caught the elevator with a rather pretty blonde maid who looked both unimpressed and unhappy with what life had offered her so far. Unseen, Kevin slipped into the elevator as well, causing her to shiver subconsciously.

When the maid got out on the next floor down and headed into the first vacant room with her cart of linens, Kevin followed, not quite sure where he was going. All he wanted to do was get away from it all, but the slight tugging sensation on his midsection told him that going much further wouldn't be physically possible.

As she began to remake the first bed in the medium sized room, the maid turned the television on. Kevin slowly sat on the other bed, eyes drawn to the program.

"In other news, the police are still on the lookout for information on the new gangs or factions on the rise in what has commonly come to be known as the 'angel wars', a name coined from the way large wing imprints are typically painstakingly illustrated with a form of charcoal the surface underneath the victims…"

"Angel on angel violence…" Kevin muttered, finding it both bizarre and amusing how close the TV station was to the truth without realizing it. Still, where there were angels, there were bound to be Winchesters…

"Caribou, Wyoming authorities released a press statement recently that they are already working in cooperation with the FBI-" Kevin snorted, his suspicions confirmed. "-to get to the bottom of the mass killings, however, at the moment no further news has been released, other than-" _Click_

Though the reporter on the screen continued to speak, no sound issued forth. Confused and slightly peeved at the interruption to the story he had been trying to pay attention to, Kevin turned to find the maid had taken off her shoes and kicked back on the bed she had been supposedly making. She had a phone at her ear now.

"…Hey, can you think of any reason the big 'I' would be in town? 'Cause I could've sworn I saw Sterling in the lobby about ten minutes ago… though he looked like he'd been locked in a closet for a few months… maybe we should pick up thank you cards for someone on the way back…"

Kevin turned back to the TV wistfully. The reporter was now saying something about another murder… at a place that looked familiar.

"wait… that's the NSA listening post!" Kevin realized. He hastily leaned over to the remote and unmuted the TV.

"She was a valued coworker and will be severely missed by all of us here. As to whoever did this… well, I'm sure they'll get what's coming to them." The interviewee finished up as a memorial picture of a familiar face appeared on the screen. Kevin swallowed. Cecily had bit the dust after all. As far as demons went, she had seemed rather… nice. Crowley probably wouldn't care, except for the fact his first go-to ally was no longer available.

"Hang on…" a more than slightly concerned voice sounded behind him.

Kevin was drawn back to reality, turning around to find the maid staring at him as if he were a ghost. Which he blinked. Approximately 2.56 seconds after the thought occurred to him, he fell through the bed to the floor.

Cursing with words he could only describe as 'learned from the Winchesters', he scrambled to his feet, anxious to see the maid's reaction.

She had brought her phone back up to her ear.

"Hardison, could you NOT remotely control an electronic device in my proximity for FIVE MINUTES?!"

Kevin sighed. She had only noticed the TV. Not him. Figured.

"You know EXACTLY what I'm talking about! I'm not THERE so you have to mess with the mute button HERE-"

Kevin awkwardly stepped out of the bed and made his way towards the door as the maid continued to berate the person on the other end of the line, who apparently was futilely trying to argue their own innocence.

"But if I have no physical form and no mass… how is there still an application of a gravity?" Kevin wondered aloud, before sighing. "….A.P. Physics C was a waste of eighty bucks." Kevin muttered, disgruntled as he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked through the solid locked door into the hallway. It always seemed to happen like that. If he remembered he had no physical form, suddenly he could no longer touch any physical object. Except the floor. He always was able to touch that. Thank God for the strange laws of the supernatural.

"Maybe the floor has iron reinforcements? Iron works on ghosts, right?" Kevin conjectured aloud as he headed down the corridor once more, towards the elevator. The empty hallway offered no response to his query.

"No… iron burns ghosts," Kevin recalled Garth's haphazard confusing lecture on how to deal with vengeful spirits, "and the TV remote was definitely plastic."

As the prophet neared the end of the hallway once more, he slowed to a stop, considering his limited knowledge on ghosts.

"Vengeful spirits CAN move objects though… that's why they're able to cause trouble," Kevin reasoned. "But how? Willpower?"

Kevin turned to a random room door and screwed his face up, focusing.

He reached for the door handle determinedly – and his hand promptly went thought it.

"No! Come on!" Kevin waved his hand back and forward, moving through the door without feeling a thing. "What do you want? A commitment to the ways of the Dark Side of the Force?!" Frustrated, the prophet pulled his hand back and angrily kicked the door – and immediately regretted it as he stubbed his toe badly. He swore for all of ten seconds, until he realized what happened and suddenly stopped short.

"Really? REALLY?!" Kevin found himself even more frustrated at the universe's subtle answer to his sarcastic question.

Across the hallway came the sound of shuffling. Two doors down, a muffled voice called out.

"HEY, IT'S ALMOST THREE IN THE MORNING – KEEP IT DOWN, WILL YA?!"

Kevin froze. Not only had they heard the noise, they had heard his voice.

Apparently anger was the answer. But… he'd been angry all day at Dean, and still no one had heard anything he'd shouted.

"Maybe… I wasn't angry enough?" Kevin speculated. As he entered the elevator, he reached over and unsuccessfully tried to press the button for the top floor. Kevin looked it, frowning.

"Anger, huh? … well, let's see. What exactly do I have to be angry about?"

It was a question similar to asking 'how many stars are there in the night sky?' Necessarily rhetorical in nature, for a quantified answer would be far too overwhelming to even begin to attempt to compile. From the moment the supernatural lightning had struck him, to the present where he was as frustratingly dead as Jacob Marley – literally every aspect of his life he could think of could be the foundation for righteous anger. His dreams of college had been dashed. His future wiped out. His family and his life extinguished.

Kevin had never been a 'troubled' child. He had focused on his school work and made excellent grades, to the delight of both himself and his mother. He'd had peers at school, and a girlfriend. He'd been largely happy, for most of his life. And he had never really _hated_ anyone.

Or at least that had been the case for nearly eighteen years of his life. But then that life ended, and the new one began – complete with a baptism of rank fear and black blood.

He hadn't hated Dick Roman – during his imprisonment at Roman Enterprises, he had been too terrified to hate anyone. Likewise, he had never really hated the Winchesters, given their only sin was being a little too preoccupied with their own suffering – but even that hadn't stopped them from always showing up to save the day. Or at least trying.

But over time the fear had lost its novelty. And as far as nightmares went, he quickly found that the horror of his new existence could not compare to the haunting dreams of his old life – of what he had lost. The happiness he longed for with a yearning so keen, it spawned other sentiments as well. Frustration at first, which matured into anger. And when that anger gained a direction… that was when Kevin learned he could hate. One person, specifically.

He was upstairs.

The prophet reached over and pressed the button for the top floor. The doors slid shut smoothly.

Though only about thirty minutes had transpired between the two trips, Kevin's ride up felt leagues different from the one down. The first time he had been running away. Now that the shock was gone, the fear had likewise left him – evaporated by the burning heat of something that was starting to make him feel so. Much. Stronger.

Kevin wasn't sure what Crowley's plan was with the blood injections, but he was sure of one thing: they made the demon weak. The King was officially off his game.

Ironically, Crowley was technically innocent of the crime of Kevin's death. But there was still plenty of Tran blood on the demon's hands – in more ways than one.

It was high time someone made him pay the blood price.


End file.
